


Can't Take the Heat

by WretchedArtifact



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mpreg, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Pregnant Otabek Altin, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26015746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WretchedArtifact/pseuds/WretchedArtifact
Summary: When an unusual summer heat wave hits St. Petersburg, Yuri makes it his mission to keep Otabek and their unborn baby cool and relaxed.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	Can't Take the Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Soulstoned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulstoned/gifts).



> Written for [Alternate Universe Exchange 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AUExchange2020/profile), for the AU prompt "Mpreg is rare, but real." I hope you enjoy!

“Yura?”

Yuri Plisetsky was submerged in an uncomfortable dream. In it, he was skating on the ice of an unfamiliar rink, in a building whose roof was inexplicably made of glass. The sun was shining directly over his head, making him sweat inside his costume, and the ice under his skates was starting to turn soft and slushy. At one point, he felt so warm that he leaned down and scooped his hands against the ice, and he came up with a loose handful of melting slush that he quickly splashed against his face. It didn’t help—it felt like the sunlight was being concentrated on him, like he was an ant under a magnifying glass.

“Yura?”

Something was poking against his ankle. In the dream, Yuri looked down and saw only his skates, untouched by anything. Then, with effort, he opened his eyes—his _actual_ eyes—and the brightly lit rink unfolded into his dark bedroom. “Huh?” Yuri said, his voice scratchy.

A foot was prodding against Yuri’s ankle. Otabek’s voice floated over from the other side of the bed: “Yura, I’m dying.”

Yuri shot upright and leaned over to look at Otabek. Normally, Otabek slept on his side with a row of pillows positioned to support his back, but right now all his pillows were massed at the foot of the bed and he was balanced uncomfortably on just the bedsheet. Even in the low light, Yuri could see the sweat glistening on Otabek’s bare chest, thin trails of it running down the huge, heavy swell of his pregnant belly. “What do you mean you’re dying?” Yuri demanded, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp.

Otabek closed his eyes against the sudden light. “The heat,” he said. “It’s killing me.”

For a second, Yuri tried to process that statement for deeper meaning. Then he realized it didn’t have one: his melodramatic boyfriend was really just complaining that he was _hot._ “Oh my God, you fucking baby,” Yuri said, but even as he said it, he was climbing out of bed, stumbling over a fallen pillow as he went to their closet. There was an old metal floor fan crammed in the back, and Yuri hauled it out and dragged it over to Otabek’s side of the bed. “Don’t say shit like that,” Yuri said. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“It’s really warm in here, though, isn’t it?” Otabek asked. “It’s not just me?”

Their apartment _was_ warmer than usual. No wonder Yuri had been burning up in his dream. “Yeah, it’s kinda stuffy and gross,” Yuri said. He plugged in the fan and turned it on. It gave an alarming squeak as the long-unused blades started to rotate, but once it got up to full speed it subsided into a steady hum. Yuri tilted it back so it was pointed straight up at Otabek.

Otabek closed his eyes with relief, his sweat-damp hair fluttering in the new breeze. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “I love you.”

“I love you too, you absolute drama queen,” Yuri said. He went over to their bathroom for a moment and soaked a washcloth in cool water, then carried it back into the bedroom. He sat back down on his side of the bed and leaned over, dabbing away the sweat on Otabek’s forehead and chest and belly. His hand lingered hopefully on Otabek’s belly, and he was rewarded with the faint, reverberating thrum of their daughter shifting position. Yuri always liked to think she could tell the difference between his touch and Otabek’s. “How’s she doing?” Yuri asked.

“She’s as awake as I am,” Otabek said. He glanced over at the clock: it was just past five in the morning. “If it’s this hot now, what’s it going to be like at noon?”

Yuri picked up his phone off the nightstand, swept away all his social media notifications without looking at them, and checked his weather app. “This says we’re going to have a two-day heat wave,” he said. “It should cool down by Thursday.”

Otabek groaned and took the washcloth from Yuri, using it to slick his hair backward off his forehead. The weather in St. Petersburg was rarely hot, to the point where they hadn’t pulled out the fan at all last year. Of course, last year, Otabek hadn’t been growing another human life in his body. Yuri felt a flicker of unease as he looked at the high afternoon temperatures, and he switched over to the web browser on his phone and searched _pregnancy hot weather_. He scanned down the results:

_Are Hot Days Risky For Your Pregnancy?_

_Summer Heat Brings New Health Concerns For Pregnant Parents_

_Hot Weather, Dehydration Pose Health Risks During Pregnancy_

Oh shit. He clicked one of the articles and started reading. “Are you feeling dehydrated right now?” Yuri asked Otabek.

“I mean, I’m kind of thirsty, but—”

Yuri was out of their bed like a shot, going straight to the fridge to grab one of his post-practice electrolyte drinks. He unscrewed the cap on the way back to the bedroom and thrust the bottle under Otabek’s nose. “Drink that,” Yuri said.

Otabek raised an eyebrow, but he took a swallow. Yuri picked up his phone again and kept reading. “What did you look up?” Otabek asked.

“Hot weather and pregnancy,” Yuri said. “This says that dehydration can trigger pre-term labor.” His eyes caught on the phrase _loss of amniotic fluid_ and he felt a sick lurch in his stomach. He nudged Otabek’s hand. “Keep drinking!”

Otabek looked faintly concerned and took another long gulp. “Let me read it for myself,” he said, holding out his free hand.

Yuri handed over his phone. He immediately felt antsy without anything to occupy his hands; how could he just _sit_ there while Otabek and the baby broiled in this stuffy room? He got up and opened the bedroom window, then picked up the washcloth and went back to soak it in cool water again. He didn’t quite wring it out enough, and when he came back and laid it over Otabek’s forehead, a little trickle of water started running down the bridge of Otabek’s nose. “I think you’re over-worrying,” Otabek said, wiping the trickle away. “This is talking about direct sunlight and prolonged heat exposure. It’s only been hot for the last hour.”

“But this is the coolest it’s going to be all day,” Yuri said. “It’s going to be an oven in here by noon.” He moved the washcloth up a little on Otabek’s head so his hair could soak up some of the excess. “Maybe we should get a hotel room for the next couple days. Somewhere with air conditioning.”

Otabek looked contemplative. “That’s probably overkill,” he said, “but air conditioning does sound really good right now.”

“Why would it be overkill?” Yuri asked. “We shouldn’t take any chances if we don’t have to, right? If we were in Almaty right now, you’d have air conditioning.”

Otabek glanced up from the phone, giving Yuri one of those calmly perceptive looks that saw right into Yuri’s head. He must’ve noticed the guilt in Yuri’s voice when he said _Almaty._ Almaty had air conditioning, and Otabek’s fathers and siblings, and all of Otabek’s old friends, but they weren’t in Almaty just then. They were in St. Petersburg for Yuri, and that made it Yuri’s fault that Otabek was sitting there, eight months pregnant and sweating miserably.

“Okay, why not?” Otabek said, handing Yuri his phone back. “We can make a vacation out of it. If you book the hotel room, I can pack our overnight bags.”

He made a move to get out of bed, and Yuri got up to help him to his feet. The bedsheet clung momentarily to Otabek’s legs, sticky with his sweat, and he grimaced. “Maybe I’ll take a shower first,” Otabek said.

“Just make sure it’s a _lukewarm_ shower,” Yuri said. He tilted his phone screen toward Otabek and pointed at a line in the article. “This says it’s not good if the water’s too hot or too cold.”

Otabek brushed a wry kiss against Yuri’s cheek. “Now who’s being the drama queen?” he asked.

* * *

Two hours later, as the rest of the city was waking up to a muggy, sweaty day, Otabek and Yuri walked into their air-conditioned hotel room and sighed with relief. The cool air felt almost decadent. “You were right,” Otabek said as they kicked off their shoes. “This was an excellent idea.”

He went over to the king-size bed and sat down. There were eight pillows piled on top of the bedspread—Yuri had asked the hotel for extras—and Otabek started rearranging them into a comfortable position with a smile. “Your Papochka thinks of everything,” he said down to the baby, in that mild, tender tone that was the closest he got to baby talk. The first time Yuri heard him use that tone was with Potya, as she batted at a toy mouse that Otabek was dangling over her head. “Yes, you are so ferocious,” he’d said to her, and the sound of his deep voice softening like that had socked Yuri in the stomach when he heard it. It was early in their friendship, and up until that point Yuri had only thought of Otabek as cool, and determined, and bluntly assertive. The fact that he could also be soft and loving had played havoc with Yuri’s already-confused feelings toward him.

Yuri set down their overnight bags and headed immediately for the other side of the bed. The first thing he did in pretty much every hotel room was flop down to check the bed’s comfort level. This one had a mattress that was a little firmer than he was used to, but the bedding was softer than the usual scratchy hotel linens. “Pretty good,” Yuri said. “Do I get one of those pillows?”

Otabek handed over one, and then, very benevolently, a second one. “When’s your ice time today?” Otabek asked.

“One o’clock.”

“I say we just go back to sleep.”

“No arguments here,” Yuri said. The two of them climbed under the covers, the mattress bouncing stiffly as they moved around to get comfortable. Yuri took out his phone, swept away the newest batch of social media notifications, and set an alarm for noon.

For the last few months, Otabek had been sleeping facing the outside edge of the bed, to make it easier for him to get up when he inevitably had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Between that and the mountain range of pillows stacked between them, Yuri had reluctantly gotten used to not being able to see him when they fell asleep. So he was surprised when Otabek laid down facing him, his heavy belly curving out so close to Yuri’s flat stomach that Yuri could feel the heat radiating against his navel. “She’s moving around a lot right now,” Otabek said. “Do you want to feel?”

The answer was so obviously _yes_ that Yuri almost said _no shit I want to feel_ , but he was trying not to curse as much now that the baby’s ears were more developed. “Of course I want to feel,” Yuri said, trying to get across the _no shit_ with just his tone. It must’ve worked, because Otabek’s lips quirked upward, and he reached out and took Yuri’s hand, setting it against a particular spot on his belly.

Yuri felt that faint, reverberating thrum again. Even though it was far from the first time he’d felt her move, it still gave him a weird, awed feeling deep in his chest to know that he was the co-creator of that source of movement. He and Otabek had created her, and now she was moving around in there under her own power, tiny and already fiercely opinionated about the circumstances of her life. Judging by the constant thrum of movement under his palm, her opinion just then seemed to be _going back to sleep is boring._

“Hopefully she settles down soon,” Otabek said, yawning. “She’s strong enough now that she can wake me up with her kicks when she wants to. She’s got your legs.”

“She’s got both of our legs,” Yuri said. “She’s going to tear up the ice when she’s older.”

Yuri heard an unfamiliar low buzzing sound, and he craned his neck to see it was his phone vibrating on the nightstand. The vibration sounded louder and more resonant against the lacquered wood surface than it did on his nightstand at home. Yuri reached over, picked his phone up, and saw it was another batch of social media notifications. He frowned, swiped the notifications away, and then went into the settings to turn off the vibration. 

“You know,” Otabek said, “when I was reading that article on your phone earlier, I saw you were getting Twitter notifications again. Did you reinstall the app?”

Oh, shit. Yuri had forgotten he might see that. “Uh,” Yuri said guiltily. “Yeah.”

Otabek had that calmly perceptive look on his face again, the kind that could see right through Yuri’s bullshit. “Why?” Otabek asked.

Yuri set his phone back on the nightstand. “You know,” he said. “So I could read what other people were saying and feel shitty about myself.”

The blunt honesty made Otabek’s mouth twitch, like he wanted to both smile and frown at the same time. “Yura,” he said, reaching out and cupping his hand against Yuri’s cheek.

“I get weak sometimes, okay?” Yuri said. “It’s like picking at a scab. I wanted to see if your fans were still pissed with me.”

Otabek raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And of course they’re still fucking pissed at me,” Yuri said. “I posted a picture of the rink and the word ‘Practicing,’ and now there’s like a five-hundred-comment brawl going on in the replies.”

Otabek sighed. He slid his hand back into Yuri’s hair. “It doesn’t matter what strangers think about what we’re doing,” he said firmly. “Just because they’re fans of our skating doesn’t mean they know us.”

And it wasn’t like Yuri didn’t already _know_ that. For the first twenty years of his life, Yuri never gave a shit about what strangers thought of him. People were constantly giving him crap about his attitude, his fashion choices, the risks he sometimes took on the ice, and it was the easiest thing in the world to just flip them off and do what he wanted. But it was different when people were talking shit about him in relation to Otabek, or the baby. It was different when people were talking shit about him and they were kind of, sort of _right._ So many of Otabek’s upset fans on Twitter were saying things that he couldn’t even argue with:

_If you KNOW you have male pregnancy in your genetic line then whyyyyyyy wouldn’t you take more precautions????_

_I know ppl want to be optimistic but Otabek’s 24, taking a year off for pregnancy is basically risking the end of his competitive career_

_I think Beka will be a great father but WOW would I not want someone as immature as Yuri Plistesky as my baby daddy_

It was rude as hell, and it was also the exact same shit Yuri thought about in his lowest moments. What if Otabek’s skating ability didn’t bounce back after the baby was born? What if Yuri turned out to be an immature fuck-up of a father? Yuri had never been the kind of person who fretted and worried about things before this, but ever since he first saw that positive pregnancy test, it was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his self-confidence.

Otabek’s hand in Yuri’s hair gave a gentle tug. “In two months, we’re going to be posting baby pictures,” Otabek said. “And I guarantee that everyone who’s upset about my year off will change their tune as soon as they see her. Right now, she’s just an abstraction to them, but she’s not going to stay that way.”

Yuri’s palm was still on Otabek’s belly, and he could still feel the faint reverberation of the baby’s jostling as she continued to complain about their upcoming nap. She wasn’t even out of the womb, and she was already brash and bold, already her own little person. It made Yuri’s heart hurt to think about what a force of nature she’d be once she was out in the world. “Yeah,” Yuri said. “She’s going to have all of those fuckers eating out of the palm of her hand.”

Otabek’s lips twitched with amusement, and he jostled Yuri’s hair. “I thought you were trying not to cuss so much.”

“Oh,” Yuri said, realizing. “Shit.”

* * *

When Yuri’s phone alarm went off at noon, he silenced it with a groan and retreated back under the covers. The hotel room was so decadently cold that he’d shivered a little when he stuck his arm out. “I don’t want to go,” Yuri grumbled, scooting in closer to Otabek. “It’s gonna be a furnace out there.”

“You’ll be fine once you get to the rink,” Otabek said, his eyes still closed.

“I bet the ice quality’s going to be shitty since it’s so hot.”

“It’ll be good practice for the next time you have to compete at a shitty rink.”

Yuri groaned again in defeat and threw back his portion of the covers. He got up, holding his arms tight against his sides. It was like a fucking freezer in here. “How are you feeling, are you too cold?” Yuri asked.

Otabek tugged over Yuri’s portion of the covers and burrowed into them more deeply. “I’m perfect,” he said, his muffled voice full of satisfaction.

Yuri gathered up his skating gear and headed out into the hot day. The contrast in temperature was so pronounced that his mood dropped from content to miserable in ten seconds flat. By the time he got to the rink, he was sweating like he’d just finished a world-record free skate, and when he walked inside, the blast of chilly air made his damp shirt feel disgusting against his skin.

Mila was already out on the ice, and when she saw him walk by, she pointed to the ice and gave a thumb’s down. Ugh, maybe his dream of the melting rink had been prophetic. Part of him was tempted to just skip his ice time and go work out in the gym instead, but he knew he shouldn’t take the easy way out. Otabek wouldn’t slack off if he could skate, and since he _couldn_ _’t_ skate, Yuri had to go out there and be responsible in his honor.

It didn’t end up being a great practice—Yuri wiped out way more than usual on the slick ice—but when he was done, he could at least say he gave it his best effort. He took off his skates and started his cool-down stretches. Mila came out of the ladies’ locker room, freshly showered and pulling her rolling bag behind her, and when she passed by Yuri she made a _tsk_ sound and stopped to nudge him deeper into his stretch. “I’m surprised you stuck out the whole practice,” she said. “The last time the ice was this bad, you quit after five minutes.”

“I’m fucking mature now,” Yuri said.

Mila snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

That was the problem with being surrounded by people who had known him since he was twelve. Even when he _was_ being mature, they had too many glaring memories of his immaturity to take him seriously. “I saw you’re back on Twitter,” Mila said, and he could tell by the hint of sympathy in her voice that she’d seen the reaction he got. “I thought you were going to stay off social media until after the baby’s born.”

“I wanted to test the waters,” Yuri said. “And the waters are still fucking _boiling,_ apparently.”

“You know how crazy fans can get,” Mila said. “But hopefully Beka’s post will calm them down.”

Yuri looked up at her mid-stretch. “Beka’s post?”

“His Instagram post,” Mila said. Yuri just stared blankly at her. “The one from today? He posted it right as you got here, I thought you’d seen it.”

 _Otabek_ had posted something to Instagram? Even before he was pregnant, he basically never updated his social media. Yuri pointed toward his gym bag, a few feet away. “Hand me my phone.”

Mila found it and brought it over. Yuri, still folded in half on the ground, turned on the screen and saw the wholly unfamiliar sight of a notification with Otabek’s name in it. His fans must’ve shit themselves when they saw it. “Try not to cry in front of the junior skaters while you’re reading it,” Mila teased, then nimbly dodged the slap Yuri aimed at her calf and left.

Yuri opened up Otabek’s Instagram and saw he’d posted one of his old family photos. It was Otabek and his father—not his Papochka, but his Papa, the one who’d given birth to him. Otabek looked all of seven years old, and even though his father was smiling normally, Otabek was looking into the camera with a seriousness of expression that was so fucking adorable it almost killed Yuri. Yuri didn’t know who their daughter was going to resemble more, but the thought of her little face matching seven-year-old Otabek’s serious expression made Yuri feel weirdly, giddily emotional.

The caption accompanying the photo said:

_Whenever I have questions about the journey that Yuri and I have decided to embark upon, I know I can always turn to my father for advice and support. Papa was 22 when he had me, and by his own admission, he didn’t know at first if he was cut out for parenthood. But, as he’s described it in the years since, I seemed very determined to be born, and so in the end he decided to trust my judgment._

_When I found out I was pregnant last year, Yuri and I also questioned whether or not we were cut out for parenthood. But our daughter, too, seemed very determined to be born, and so in the end we decided to trust her judgment. What that means for my skating, I don’t know yet, but I’ve accepted the possibility that some journeys can’t coexist with others. When two journeys conflict, all you can do is make your choices with care and intention._

_This is the journey Yuri and I have picked, and I don’t regret a second of it._

Oh, fuck. The whole thing was so firmly, unflinchingly defensive of Yuri that Yuri really _did_ feel like he might cry in front of the junior skaters. He quickly unfolded himself from his stretch and got up, grabbing his gym bag and making a beeline for the rink exit. When he stepped out into the searingly hot afternoon, he winced at the temperature difference, but his mind was so preoccupied that he forgot to be miserable about it. He started hurrying back to the hotel.

He re-read Otabek’s caption several times as he walked. Even though it was carefully worded, it had way more personal detail than Otabek usually gave. “ _Our daughter, too, seemed very determined to be born”_ was a hilariously philosophical way to describe a broken condom, and “ _all you can do is make your choices with care and intention”_ was a very subdued way to describe the weeks of tortured indecision they had gone through when they got back the positive pregnancy test. For over a decade, Yuri’s plans for the future had rarely extended further than the next skating season, and having to sit down and actually look at his life in the long-term was terrifying. It had taken a lot of talking and freaking out before he and Otabek finally settled on the “journey” they were taking.

When Yuri got back to their hotel room, he opened the door to find Otabek still in bed, working on his laptop. He was sitting up, but he had the covers pulled up over his shoulders to block the chilly air. “Hey,” Otabek said. “Welcome back. How was the rink?”

“As shitty as I said it was going to be,” Yuri said. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his damp t-shirt, and dove straight into bed. “How’s it been here?”

“Not to complain,” Otabek said, “but I’ve been too cold to get out of bed.”

For a second, Yuri wondered if he should do a search for _pregnancy cold temperatures,_ just in case there was a new set of dangers to be worried about, but Otabek set his laptop on the nightstand and slid back down into bed, resettling the covers over both of them. It was snug and warm underneath. “How’s she been?” Yuri asked, cupping his hand over Otabek’s belly.

“Quiet,” Otabek said. “It’s like she only wants to sleep when I’m awake.”

Yuri really, really hoped that wasn’t a trend that would continue after she was born. He moved his hand up, trying to find Otabek’s under the covers. Otabek interlaced their fingers together. “I saw you updated your Insta,” Yuri said.

Otabek’s face took on the slightest, faintest flush. “I went online after you left and saw some of the things people were saying to you,” Otabek said. “I thought addressing things directly might help.”

“Did it?”

“I didn’t read any of the replies to my post,” Otabek admitted. “I’ve been having such a nice day, and I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Yuri raised a mocking eyebrow. “What happened to not caring what strangers think?”

“I _don’t_ care what they think,” Otabek said. “Except when they’re wrong.”

It sent a wave of warm satisfaction through Yuri. No matter what people were saying about them, or their choices, no one could deny that he and Otabek were taking this on as a team. Whatever the world threw at them, they were going to deal with it together. Yuri leaned forward, carefully angling his body so he wouldn't jostle Otabek's belly, and gave Otabek a firm kiss. "Thanks for having my back," he said.

Otabek cupped the back of Yuri's head and pulled him back in for a few more kisses. "Enough about the Internet," Otabek said. "Let's enjoy this room while we still have it." He mussed Yuri's sweat-damp hair curiously. “Did you not shower after practice?”

Oops. Yuri had been so eager to get back to the hotel after reading Otabek’s post that he’d completely forgot. “I thought I’d wait until I got back,” Yuri lied. “I knew I was going to sweat on my walk home anyway.”

Otabek gave him that calm, fond look that meant he knew Yuri was lying. “I’d offer to take one with you,” Otabek said, “but someone told me recently that I can only take lukewarm showers.”

He sounded like he was teasing, but Yuri immediately sat up in bed, full of hope and interest. “I can do lukewarm,” he said.

A little smirk appeared on the edge of Otabek's mouth. "You say that now," he said. "But have you ever actually had a lukewarm shower? They're not great."

"Oh, don't worry," Yuri said. He threw back the covers. "I can definitely think of some other ways to keep you warm."


End file.
